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  "He tried to kill you!" George helped him to his feet.

  "Yeah, sure looks like it." Asher looked around, a crowd was gathering. He ducked his head as cell phone cameras were pointed in his direction.

  "Are you hurt?" George turned him around, still checking for injuries.

  Asher shook out his clothes, thankful for the now abraded leather jacket. "I don’t think so."

  "You fell pretty hard."

  "Yeah, thanks to that stunt man, what was his name? He taught me that. I need to call him. I really nailed it that time."

  George gave him that look. He put his arm around Asher and escorted him to a bench. "You’re going to sit right there while I call those detectives."

  Asher acquiesced. He trusted George to know what was right, what was appropriate. He took a deep breath. The adrenaline drained away, and he was now very aware of all the bumps and bruises he'd just acquired.

  As though sitting down was a signal, the crowd descended on him yelling advice and offering their observations. A couple of cops on bikes came over to sort it out.

  * * *

  At the hospital, Detectives Smythe and Bledsoe marched into the exam room catching Asher half-dressed.

  "Hey."

  Bledsoe gave him a quick once-over. "Doctor says you’re fine."

  "Well, nothing's broken," he said. But the aches he was feeling had him expecting some fairly dramatic bruises on the morrow. "Luckily, I didn't screw my arm up any worse." He showed them the scuff marks on his cast. "I’m getting a little too old to be doing my own stunts." He offered them his best self-deprecating smile.

  Smythe gave him a look that made him pull his shirt on quicker, despite the sore muscles and road rash. "You’re buff enough. Looks like you’ve been hitting the gym," she said in an accusing tone.

  "Endorphins are addicting, too."

  "That’s a lot of work for a little high. You don't get that kind of results over night."

  Asher eyed her quizzically. He wasn't sure why the animosity had returned. "I'm an actor. My body is part of the package. I need to look like the roles I want to play." His words enflamed her annoyance to fury. "You don't seem worried that someone tried to kill me."

  "Did they?" she snapped. "Somebody caught your act on a cell phone . You’re already playing on every news channel. Again."

  "All this attention must be very helpful for your comeback," Bledsoe added.

  Asher counted to ten in his head and unclenched his jaw. "Do you know how depressing it is to know you think me capable of some egocentric, homicidal ad campaign?" He met their eyes, but found no sympathy there. "Am I under arrest?"

  "Let’s just say we’d like to ask you a few more questions."

  * * *

  Smythe and Bledsoe stood at the two-way mirror watching Asher in the interrogation room. He was sitting at the table waiting patiently.

  "Is White his accomplice, or is he really trying to kill Blaine?" she grumbled.

  "That dive did look choreographed," her partner replied. "But answer me this, if White is his accomplice, why did Blaine want those women dead?"

  "Beyond the media attention?"

  "A sane person would need another reason."

  Smythe ticked off the items on her fingers. "Ex-manager that embezzled, ex-wife that took him for a huge settlement, assistant that failed and ex-girlfriend that wouldn't stay gone."

  Bledsoe leaned against the wall and thought it through. "The embezzlement was years ago. The ex-wife seemed friendly enough. We know he liked the assistant, and I don't think Larissa was ever his girlfriend. Doesn't carry water."

  "Having your friends get murdered isn't exactly the best kind of attention to get," she conceded.

  Bledsoe raised his shoulder in a half shrug. "Anything on the car, yet?"

  "The blue or black or green sedan or SUV that was driven by a woman or a man wearing sunglasses, a ball cap, or a hoodie with a shaved head and tattoos who was between 25 and 50?"

  Bledsoe squinted his eyes shut and rubbed his forehead. "A different story from every damn eye witness. Useless. No, I meant the video. Have they been able to get the license plate off it?

  "I’ll go bug them again." She hurried away.

  "Detective?"

  Bledsoe nodded to a patrol officer escorting a civilian.

  "This man says he has some information on the Blaine case."

  The detective beckoned to the civilian. The officer left.

  "I'm Dr. Crenshaw." He walked to the window and stared in at Asher. "A colleague saw it on the 'net and alerted me. Is he OK?"

  "Yup."

  "I am concerned that one of my patients might be responsible for his accident."

  "And setting his house on fire and killing three women?" Bledsoe asked.

  Crenshaw spun to look at him, eyes wide. "Killing three...no, I can’t believe he’d be capable of that."

  "What about Asher? What’s he capable of?"

  Crenshaw turned back to the window and his study of Asher. "He's capable of many things, but in my opinion, murder isn't one of them."

  "He seems to have a lot of memory lapses, does he have blackouts?"

  "I can't discuss any of that with you."

  "Can you tell me if he's lying?"

  "About what?"

  "Not being able to remember?"

  Crenshaw appeared to squirm a little. Bledsoe wondered how hard he could push him.

  "Sometimes, when we are becoming better people, it's hard to remember our inferior selves."

  "So, it's not a case of can't, but won't?"

  The doctor sidestepped, shaking his head. "No, not really. I can't discuss any specifics."

  Bledsoe snorted. "Not much help, then, are you?"

  Chapter 41

  Asher looked up gingerly as the door opened. A twinge ran down his neck and into his shoulder. His skin burned where it was missing, and he had bone deep aches where various limbs had bounced off the pavement. Once again he had refused pain pills. He wanted to go lie down somewhere with a body-sized ice pack. The day had started out with such promise. Every time he thought he had his ducks in a row, they turned into platypuses.

  Detective Bledsoe came in with Dr. Crenshaw. Asher shook his head, an unlikely pair.

  "Dr. Crenshaw, why are you here?"

  Crenshaw glanced at the detective and then to Asher. "Have you talked to Robby?"

  "I have. Is he all right?" Asher's heart sped up.

  "Yes. Well, I suppose so," Crenshaw said. He took a seat opposite Asher at the table. "Last we talked, he was very angry with you. I thought he might have..."

  Asher bolted to his feet, anger filled his chest with an uncomfortable heat. "Robby would never hurt me."

  "How do you know?" Bledsoe cocked an eyebrow. He was leaning against the wall, arms folded, the picture of patience.

  Asher glared at Crenshaw. He wasn't sure what he wanted to share, or what he should share. Crenshaw took the first step.

  "I know he’s obsessed with you."

  And that said it all. Asher tried to pace, his stride stumbling into a painful limp. He leaned into the far corner, hugging his cast in an attempt to corral his anger. He did not want to tell secrets that weren't his, but he was furious that they would blame Robby out of ignorance.

  "You never saw it," he accused Crenshaw.

  "Saw what?" Bledsoe asked.

  Asher stared down at the worn linoleum. He didn't want to have to deal with their misperceptions. What should be a quick answer was about to devolve into a new and uglier interrogation.

  "Robby’s not obsessed with me. He was in love with me."

  The look on Crenshaw's face gave Asher a sudden insight. Shrinks couldn't really get inside your head. They only saw the bits and pieces that you were willing to part with. From that, they could only extrapolate. It was painfully clear that Crenshaw had never seen as much of Robby's distorted world as Asher had.

  Bledsoe pushed off the wall and took a step toward Asher. "OK, that’s somethi
ng I should have known."

  "Why?" Asher snapped back. "He’s not violent. He’s just a closeted, frustrated little guy in love with someone who’s not going to reciprocate. It happens. But I know Robby. He wouldn’t hurt me."

  Bledsoe gave that a little thought. "Even if it helped your career? You're getting a lot of news coverage out of it."

  The doctor shook his head. "Robby wouldn’t get anything out of that. In fact, that was what fueled his anger to begin with."

  Bledsoe gave Asher a calculating look. "Maybe some reciprocating?"

  Asher leaned his head against the wall and spoke through gritted teeth. "I'm not gay. I've never used sex as a currency. I would not use Robby, or a friend, or a fan in that way."

  He took a breath and was able to continue more calmly. "And last I spoke to him, Robby wasn't angry with me. He's found a partner, and they are very happy."

  He turned on Crenshaw. "I'm appalled that you could so easily blame Robby for something this damning."

  "I'm not blaming Robby," Crenshaw said. "I was concerned that some recent events might have pushed him a little too hard. And that he might take it out on you."

  "Me?"

  "He's having trouble seeing the difference in your lives. He's mopping floors, and you're on television. It doesn't seem like you've started over at the bottom. I hear mention of you on the news all the time now."

  "Dr. Crenshaw, you're wrong," Asher said, feeling for once he had the upper hand. "I will assume that you haven't seen Robby in a while. I have. Yesterday, in fact. He's doing really well. However, he did tell me a few things I need to share with Detective Bledsoe."

  Crenshaw gave him a condescending smile. "Asher, it takes a long time for us to reconcile with—"

  "Sorry." Bledsoe grabbed his arm and ushered him out the door.

  "No, no, I have information that is important," he sputtered as he tried to pull free. Bledsoe snagged a patrolman to escort the doctor back to the lobby.

  The detective shut the door and leaned against it. "How much of that was show?"

  "None." Asher settled back at the table. "Robby was at Sharon's funeral."

  "Did he know her?"

  "No." Asher gave him a guilty look. "He was stalking me."

  Bledsoe joined him at the table and pulled out his notebook. "When did it start?"

  "That's not important. Like I said, he's happy now. He said Sharon confronted him for watching the house. And he said I had another stalker." Asher pulled the photo of Scott out of his pocket. "Him."

  Bledsoe took the photo. "Who is it?"

  "That's Scottie. Well, Scottie eight years ago."

  Bledsoe frowned at the photo. "Stay put," he ordered as he left the room.

  Asher was left to count the ceiling tiles again. Bledsoe returned with a file. He pulled a photo out and showed it to Asher. "Who's this?"

  "That's Paul, Scott's brother. Who really is dead, I think."

  "Was Scott the driver?" Bledsoe asked.

  Asher closed his eyes to relive the scene—the speeding car, the ocean breeze, sun burning down, the smell of hot asphalt. "There was glare on the windshield. I couldn't see anything."

  "That would be too easy."

  "Do you think Scott's following me?"

  "I think that's a safe conclusion," Bledsoe said. "Especially if he was driving the car that tried to hit you, which we now know was rented with a stolen credit card and Paul's license."

  Asher shook his head. "But Paul is dead, right? How did he get a license?"

  Bledsoe gave him a tired shrug. "Obviously, it's a fake. And this is another dead end."

  Asher felt bad for the detective. He looked very disappointed. "Why don't you just follow me?"

  "We don't have the free time to follow you around all day in the hopes a killer feels like showing up."

  Asher pushed back from the table. "Just trying to help," he muttered.

  Bledsoe collected his notebook and assorted food and drink clutter from the day. "Go home."

  Asher helped tidy the room before walking out with him.

  "Be careful, Blaine," the detective admonished. "Don't do anything stupid."

  Asher gave him a salute as they parted by the elevator.

  The sky was royal blue with a fading band of orange on the horizon when he stepped outside the police station. He took a deep breath, only to choke on bus fumes. The day was shot, and he was totally drained. Using his new phone, he let George know he was on the way back to the hotel. He flagged a cab and nearly fell asleep on the ride back. He was thankful to find nothing more awaiting him than a chocolate on his pillow.

  Chapter 42

  Bright and early the next morning Asher was back at the house cleaning and clearing out debris. Bulging trash bags lined the curb. He went through every cleaning product, every roll of paper towels and a whole box of trash bags. It might be pointless. The house might be a tear-down, but there was something very soothing about cleaning up a big mess. Which was what his life felt like right now. He wasn't any closer to solving the murders or finding Scott. Keeping his body busy so his mind could sift through things one more time seemed like a good idea.

  The police were at a dead end but still were not willing to use him as bait. If the killer was following him, the police just needed to watch the neighborhood to catch the guy. That seemed like a perfectly reasonable course of action to Asher. There was bound to be another attempt on his life. Although the presence of all the workmen would probably deter another attack.

  Or not. The carpenters came and went at odd intervals. He could end up alone here without any warning.

  He stopped, hands full of sooty rubble, and seriously thought about letting the killer come to him. There was the possibility of guns or bombs or some other impersonal weapon, but considering all that had led up to this, Asher couldn't imagine that the killer wouldn't want a little face time. If he stayed here alone, that could happen. Only this time, he needed to be prepared.

  When the workers broke for lunch, he ordered a half-dozen pizzas to go around and sat down to eat with them, grateful for a break from his cleaning and scheming. They asked him easy questions about kissing beautiful actresses and which fast cars he'd driven. After he cleaned up, and the men were back at work, he decided to go buy more cleaning supplies. The store wasn't far. He'd stretch out some kinks and walk there. And he'd have to go right past his usual morning haunt. He'd missed his quiet routine over the past few days, not to mention the pastries.

  * * *

  Asher dawdled at the café sipping espresso and indulging in tiramisu. His mind turned back to his earlier thoughts. Was he strong enough to confront the killer? Should he accept the evidence and acknowledge that it was Scott? And when he put that together, was he ready to challenge a dangerous ex-in-law who was obviously a sociopath?

  The more he thought about Scott, the more he realized he didn't know the man at all. There was a strong possibility that he hadn't spent any sober time with Scott. Sober meant Asher was working, and that meant Denny had security watching Scott and the bodyguards running interference. Asher vaguely remembered a major argument between Denny and Scott outside his trailer while filming Joey Amsterdam. The particulars were gone, but the intent had always been the same: Scott wanted full access. Now Asher had to admit it was his stuff, not him, that Scott wanted access to.

  Asher took another sip of the bitter, black coffee and reflected on how many people had been involved in keeping him safe from his own mistakes. Maybe a long night in a drunk tank would have put him on another path. That train of thought brought him back to his time in the hospital and around to Robby and Rex and of some of the other patients he'd known in his time there. Some of them would never leave. They were too damaged to live normal lives. At one point, he had been heading down that dark road, too. He stopped himself from starting another futile round of what-ifs and turned his focus to plotting.

  To survive the confrontation, he had to be prepared for an assassination attempt. This
time it wouldn't be as blunt as a burning house or a speeding car. It would be more intimate and more deadly. He doubted he could get his hands on a gun although that was certainly the most prudent defense. He could take a page out of Alanna's book and load up on pepper spray otherwise he was left with steak knives and broom handles, a somewhat lightweight arsenal. Although he had gotten good with a staff while filming that Zorro knock-off, and he'd practiced hours of knife throwing for the CIA agent, or was it the black ops guy?

  The door burst open and his plans took a hard left turn. A gaggle of reporters pushed each other through the door. They circled him, filling the intimate interior of the café with the ruckus of a mob. Barking questions and snapping pictures, they jostled for position callously banging into tables, chairs and patrons. In that instant, he regretted that he wasn't as smart or glib as some of the characters he'd played. That thought exploded into the next—characters he had lived inside of. He knew how they thought, and how they moved.

  The spy had a few words with the pirate.

  Asher shoved the table, startling those in front and knocking the crowd back a step. It gave him a two second lead. He tossed a few twenties down by the register as he ducked around the counter.

  "A round on me for amends," he said with a wink for the barista. She flashed him a smile as he dashed out the back door.

  Chapter 43

  Smythe sorted through the stack of phone messages on her desk, separating them by case. She took a sip of coffee, first cup of the day. "Why do they always call when I'm not here," she grumbled. One message was nearly indecipherable. She recognized the scrawl and put it aside. The person who took the call wouldn't be in for a couple of hours.

  Buried at the bottom of the pile was an old message she'd been ignoring because she wasn't sure which case it belonged to. She looked over at Bledsoe who was reading through some paperwork.

  "Lisa Davis ring a bell?" she asked

  "Um..." He patted down the piles on his desk to find his notebook. "Yeah, here. She worked for Blaine."

  "Blaine?" Smythe stared at the note. Now it made even less sense. "What about Don Tognarelli?"